


may the blessing of love be upon you

by isamagicdragon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Family Bonding, Gen, Geralt deserves to be happy, Post Blood and Wine, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamagicdragon/pseuds/isamagicdragon
Summary: If harsh words spoken with hatred result in curses, then it must follow that kind words spoken with sincerity result in blessings.Or, everything goes extremely well for Geralt, and he doesn't understandwhy.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 9
Kudos: 94





	may the blessing of love be upon you

_May you have -_

_Walls for the wind_

_And a roof for the rain,_

_And drinks bedside the fire_

_Laughter to cheer you_

_And those you love near you,_

_And all that your heart may desire_

_-A Celtic Blessing_

“Thank you, thank you, Master Witcher!” the old lady babbles as she clutches her granddaughter to her chest. “Our Millie’d be dead if it weren’t for you!” 

Geralt had been searching for an inn in the backwoods of Velen when the shouting started — a house had caught on fire, with a sleeping child trapped inside it. He’d jumped off Roach and thrown himself into the fire before he even realized what he was doing; gotten a nasty burn for his carelessness as a result. At least the child — Millie — was unharmed. Dirty and sooty and scared, yes, but _alive_. 

“It’s fine,” he grunts at the woman. “Anyone would’ve done it.” 

It takes her a while to compose herself, and Geralt doesn’t blame her. Her home just burned down. He sits beside MIllie as her grandmother does her best to soothe her, patching up his burn all the while. No point letting it get infected — he’d been careless enough to get the burn, but he won’t be stupid enough to let it get _worse_.

Eventually Millie calms down, and the men of the neighborhood manage to put out the fire. An old man approaches them, face drawn and pale, and when he sees that Millie is sniffling but otherwise fine, all the tension drains away from his body. He even starts tearing up in relief, which Geralt awkwardly tries to ignore. 

Nobody usually lets a witcher see that kind of vulnerability. And standing here, next to a couple holding onto their child, crying with the relief that she survived — well, it makes Geralt feel a little bit out of place. 

It brings back a lot of terrible memories too — of walking into a different hut with a different girl trapped inside, of clutching Ciri's limp body to his chest, the cold grip of despair tight around his heart —

Well. It wasn't real. Ciri is alive and well, on the road to Nilfgaard now, probably, and this isn't the time or place to have a breakdown anyway.

After a while, the old man breaks away from his family and approaches Geralt, wringing his hands. “Millie is all we have left after our son died fighting the Black Ones,” he says hoarsely. “A thousand times, thank you, Master Witcher, but we’ve no coin to pay you.” 

Yeah, Geralt guessed as much, given their house is a smoking pile of cinders behind them. “No need. Wasn’t a contract anyway.”

“You won’t — the Law of —” the old lady starts, but her husband shushes her frantically. 

“The Law of Surprise? No,” Geralt says dryly. He already has a Child Surprise, and one is enough for him, thanks. “Just — think of it as a favor. Anyone would do it.”

The woman bursts into tears. “Gods, thank you, witcher. A blessing then, before you go?” 

That’s strange, but what the hell. “Sure, why not,” Geralt says. 

She gives him a watery smile, puts her hand on his head and begins to sing. 

_May you have -_

_Walls for the wind_

_And a roof for the rain,_

_And drinks bedside the fire_

_Laughter to cheer you_

_And those you love near you,_

_And all that your heart may desire_

~

Geralt moves on, and mostly forgets about the old woman's blessing until he goes to Corvo Bianco, keys and deed in hand. His medallion starts to vibrate as soon as he grabs the door knob, and he grunts in surprise. 

"Sir?" Barnabas-Basil prompts him. 

"Nothing," he says. "Just — are you sure you cleared out the bruxa?"

His majordomo swells with indignation. "Yes, of course! I could never let the new master of this estate move in without clearing the, er, mess!" 

"Hmmm," says Geralt. He follows Barnabas-Basil on his tour, and then circles the entire property again for good measure. 

He searches the vineyard once, twice, even three times, but he couldn't find a single source of malevolent magic anywhere. Not even a single archespore, even though the surrounding vineyards had infestation problems. The unease doesn't leave him, until he walks into the bedroom — _his_ bedroom — and lays down in the first bed he has ever owned. 

Then he remembers. 

"Walls for the wind and a roof for the rain, huh," Geralt says to himself, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He turns the idea over and over in his head, until he finally falls asleep, heart light with the beginnings of contentment. 

~

Geralt carries Marlene to Corvo Bianco himself, lays her out in the guest bedroom as gently as he can. Her years spent as a spotted wight have clearly taken a toll on her health; she's nothing but liver-spotted skin and brittle bones, and Geralt is afraid that a wrong touch would hurt her. Once he gets her settled in, he asks Lucy, the maid Barnabas-Basil had hired, to prepare some broth for Marlene, and goes to wake B.B. himself. 

"I managed to lift the curse by sharing a meal with her, then I brought her home. I still have to ask her what her plans are, but I'm pretty sure she has nowhere else to go," Geralt admits to his steward, after recounting the entire story. "Seems like she might have to stay here. Until she gets better, at least."

"Yes, yes, of course. I shall make the preparations," Barnabas-Basil says thickly, apparently moved by Marlene's tragic tale. 

Geralt squints. "B.B., are you crying?"

"She'll be staying in the guestroom, naturally, but that does leave us with no beds to spare. This might be a good opportunity for an expansion, sir," he barrels on, completely ignoring Geralt. 

It doesn't hide the sniffles, though, so Geralt lets it slide. "Yeah, an expansion sounds like a good idea. I have some money at the Cianfanelli Bank in Beauclair. You can use it to cover the costs." An expansion would mean he can get a permanent room for Ciri prepared, for whenever she decides to visit. The thought cheers him up immensely. 

"I'll start at once!" says Barnabas-Basil, and then he grabs the opportunity to flee back to his quarters, sniffling all the way. 

Geralt smiles a little to himself, and then goes to collect the broth for Marlene. It's late, and Lucy is clearly tired, so he sends her to bed and brings the food up himself. 

Marlene is dozing off when he gets there, but she manages to sit up when Geralt prods her awake. He tries his best to be gentle with her, feeding her small spoonfuls of broth at a time to help her stomach get used to food again. 

"I — I'm sure I can manage on my own, sir," Marlene protests weakly. 

Geralt sighs. "Yes, you can, but you don't _have_ to," he says patiently. "I'm helping you out of my own free will." 

Marlene tears up at that, but she lets Geralt continue. Soon, all the broth is gone, and he offers her a place in Corvo Bianco. 

"I couldn't impose on you any more than I already have —"

"You won't be imposing, I'm offering," he reminds her. "If there's anything else you might want to do, if you want to go somewhere or move into the city, I'll find a way to make it happen."

She's silent for a long time. 

"After all the starvation I endured," she begins hesitantly, "I only have one dream: to cook for others, to sit at a table with them while they are nourished by the food I made."

"Hmm. Don't see a problem if that's your dream. There are always people to cook for here, and Barnabas-Basil's meals are fine, but they're not the best."

Marlene smiles at him through her tears. "Nothing would make me happier. Thank you. And another thing: my dowry is still safely locked in my home, in the basement. I want you to have it, as a token of my gratitude."

"I'll go get it," Geralt promises. "Are you sure you'll be happy, staying out here?"

She nods. "I don't think I can manage it, being around so many people," she confesses. "Perhaps after some time, when I have recovered. For now, I will be perfectly happy to stay here."

Geralt squeezes her hand gently. "Alright then," he says, getting up. "Good night —"

"Wait," Marlene interrupts. "Can you indulge me for a moment?"

"Uh, alright." Marlene beckons him down, so Geralt sits on the bed, beside her. 

"It's a little silly, but I'd like to give you a blessing. May I?" she asks tentatively. 

Geralt hesitates. The last time this happened… well, it's not likely that a _song_ made Annarietta give him a vineyard. "No problem," he says. 

Marlene smiles at him again, places her hand on his head, and begins to sing. 

~

He forgets about this blessing too, because the next months are grueling. It took a lot of time, a lot of effort, and several minor miracles to pull it off, but Geralt and Regis manage to come up with a solution that keeps all parties safe between Detlaff, Syanna, and the Duchess.

Fortunately, Detlaff listens to reason and doesn't go through with his threat to raze Beauclair. After several nights of getting thoroughly trashed on Regis' moonshine, Geralt and Regis manage to talk him through the worst of Syanna's betrayal, and he decides to leave Toussaint to recover. Detlaff even agrees to let them bring evidence of his "execution" to Annarietta, and if he has since recovered quite well from his beheading, that's just between Geralt and Regis. 

Meanwhile, Damien had unearthed evidence of Syanna's fifth victim — Anna Henrietta herself — and the whole of Beauclair's court is in uproar over it. 

"You solved one problem and handed me three more, witcher," the Duchess snaps at Geralt, when he reports at the Palace. "But defeating the Beast was no easy task, and you deserve your reward. Damien!"

Damien comes forward, bearing a chest of gold, a tight roll of parchment, and a key.

"The gold that was promised. And —" Annarietta hesitates. "Despite everything, you brought my sister back to me. I am not ungrateful; for this service, you deserve a reward as well. You seem to be handling Corvo Bianco competently; hopefully Belgaard will also flourish under your care. Though from what I hear," she smirks, "the problems in the vineyard are uniquely matched to your ah, skillset." 

"Uh, thank you, Your Grace," Geralt says, bowing. Somehow, he feels like Annarietta had handed him three more problems as well. 

~

Belgaard turns out to be infested with archespores, panthers, wolves, drowners — you name it, Belgaard had it. Even worse, the property wasn't well guarded, so brigands and bandits have moved into its more remote corners. Clearing it out leaves Geralt exhausted, and with some new scars for his collection, but after all that work Barnabas-Basil pops up to inform him that there's even _more_ to be done. 

"We invested much of your coin at the Cianfanelli bank into the expansion at Corvo Bianco, sir," Barnabas-Basil tells him, wringing his hands. "The Duquessa will not be assisting us with wages this time, since your income from Corvo Bianco should be enough, but we've not turned a profit yet and Belgaard will need so much coin to restore it —"

"How much?" Geralt interrupts. 

"I — The estimate is at twenty thousand crowns. Ten thousand for —" 

"Give me a week."

~

After several contracts, three high-stakes gwent tournaments in Beauclair, Vizima, and Novigrad, and a visit to his account with Vimme Vivaldi, Geralt hands over the gold to Barnabas-Basil. 

"Twenty thousand crowns," he says, depositing the chest on the dining table. 

"Ah, yes, I'll get right to it, sir," Barnabas-Basil says, eyes wide. 

As for Geralt, he falls into a chair and tucks into the dinner Marlene made for him, and when he asks for seconds, she goes back to the kitchen to fetch him another plate, humming all the way. 

~

Fall comes around and both Corvo Bianco and Belgaard manage to bring in good harvests. Regis also manages to produce several _barrels_ of his moonshine, because Geralt had bullied him into moving his brewing set up to Belgaard. The equipment there was excellent, and more importantly, made for commercial volumes, which aligned perfectly well with Geralt's hidden agenda. 

Everluce, Est Est, Sangreal — they were all excellent wines, but nothing could get a witcher blitzed like Regis' astronomically high-proof moonshine. It was, after all, formulated to wean a vampire off a blood addiction. 

"Five hundred bottles of vampire and witcher-strength moonshine," Regis says wryly, looking over the cases the workers had just finished bottling. "Whatever shall we do with them?" 

"If they don't sell, we can always drink it ourselves," Geralt says, trying not to sound too excited.

Destiny fucks him over yet again, though, when the auctions start; Belgaard had some vintages that were ready for release, but the Everluce _isn't_ their bestseller. 

"Please, sir, even just one case of White Wolf!" a merchant from Beauclair begs Geralt. 

He obstinately refuses to get up from his seat — which happens to be the last five cases. "No," he grunts. “This is mine.”

Regis wanders over to where Geralt is sulking, face still a bit pink from all the praise the wine snobs were giving him. "Oh come now, don't pout," he says, amused. "We've still got plenty." 

"We had _five hundred bottles_ , Regis," Geralt whines. 

"Yes, yes, but now we've enough coin to give _all_ your workers a big bonus!" 

Ugh. Geralt can't argue with that; after all the hard work they put in (and the few mild mandrake poisonings some had endured) the workers deserve the bonus. "Let's just go home, then." At least Marlene will have a delicious dinner waiting for him in Corvo Bianco. 

They haul the cases all the way back to the house, and when they pass through Corvo Bianco's gates, Geralt's medallion starts to hum. He immediately tenses, ears straining for any sign of danger —

— but instead he only hears faint laughter coming from the house. He and Regis exchange confused glances, and then they hurry in. 

Eskel, Lambert, Zoltan and Dandelion are seated around the table, laughing uproariously over something or other. 

"It's Geralt! Welcome home, lad!" Zoltan cheers, raising a mug. "Your man Basil let us in, said you were off to some auction, so I hope you don't mind we got started without you!" 

"I can see that," Geralt deadpans. But the unexpected pleasure of having his friends here, in his home — even Lambert! — sends warmth spreading through his chest. 

"Hah, he's smiling! I _told_ you he'd be glad to see us, even unannounced!" Dandelion crows. 

"And you're just in time too." Regis hefts up a case. "Gentlemen, you're about to taste the best spirit in Toussaint!" 

Lambert snorts into his cup when he sees the little picture of a wolf on the label. "Never thought that _you_ , of all witchers, would retire to _make wine_." 

"It's not so bad. Free wine is nice," Geralt shrugs. "How long are you staying?" 

"Thought we'd winter here for now," Eskel says, after a long look at Lambert. "Kaer Morhen is truly in ruins, and —"

"And, since the old man is gone, I thought I'd come to annoy _you_ for the winter instead," Lambert interrupts. Which is Lambert-speak for _this is my first winter without Vesemir_ and Geralt immediately understands. 

"Lambert, Lambert, still a prick," Geralt grunts, and he thinks Lambert hears _you're always welcome here_ in the insult anyway. 

"Thanks, Geralt. We really appreciate it," Eskel says, because he's always been the best adjusted among the three of them. "Is there anything we can help with, while we're here?"

Geralt considers it for a moment, and then just shrugs. B.B. will know what to do with them tomorrow. "Eh, it can wait. Go try Regis' brew, it's the best thing he's made. I gotta go take care of something." 

He turns on his heel and heads to the kitchen, where Marlene is bent over a large pot of soup and singing under her breath. 

"— _drinks beside the fire, and laughter to cheer you —_ Master Geralt, do you have any requests for dinner?"

Marlene arches her brow at Geralt, who had frozen in the doorway. 

"I, uh, nothing really," Geralt mumbles, head spinning and a bit overwhelmed. "Just — more,

of everything, alright? Lambert and Eskel can eat a _lot_."

"The two witcher boys? I thought they'd be just like you, always hungry all the time, so don't worry. I prepared." She gestures at all the roasted chickens she has resting on the side table. "We'll take good care of them. Now run along and enjoy your time with your friends," she says, a knowing smile on her face. 

The magic, from the medallion — it has to be from her. He goes back to the hall in a daze, even stays out there for a while just to bask in the atmosphere of merriment that comes from having a house full of friends. 

"— now the Green Fairy is what I call this cocktail. The key is some dried mandrake root and then setting the shot on fire —"

"— on _fire?!"_

"— then you add the spice and —"

"— oh, you whoreson, I'm _in —"_

There's a _whoosh_ of flame, several clinks of glass, and then a roar of laughter. 

" _Son of a bitch —"_

Drinks by the fire and laughter to cheer you. Geralt finds himself grinning, flushed with the feeling of _happiness_ , light and bright. 

~ 

Spring comes along, and one by one, his houseguests leave to go back to their own lives. Eskel and Lambert go back to the Path as soon as spring begins. Dandelion and Zoltan stay a bit longer, but eventually they have to go back to Novigrad — back to running their inn and dealing rare gwent cards and whatnot. Regis also has to go; he leaves his moonshine recipe with Geralt when he leaves for Metinna, where Detlaff had gone after the incident with Syanna. 

Geralt sends them all off with standing invitations to stay at Corvo Bianco, whenever they want to come by. 

It gets lonely, sometimes, but Geralt has a lot of work and a lot of new people to meet. He surprises the workers by helping out in the fields himself. He learns best with his hands, and Jean Jacques, the oldest farmer under the employ of Corvo Bianco, is one hell of a teacher. Listening to the owners of the other vineyards huff and puff about soil conditions will never be as educational as getting chewed out by Jean Jacques for pruning badly or messing up the trellis. Geralt keeps at it though, and soon, the vines begin to bud, and the vineyards are green all around, blanketing the hills with new life.

Slowly, his future in Toussaint is beginning to take shape. The comforts of a home and the steady, honest labor of the vineyard are starting to grow on him, and on the increasingly rare occasions that the Path calls out to him, Marlene packs him a generous lunch and he goes out to slay some monster that's been sighted in the duchy. It's a compromise that works, and Geralt finds himself as close to contentment as he'd ever come in his lifetime. 

There's something missing, though. Marlene hums her blessing every morning, while she cooks breakfast, and the last couplet burrows itself into the back of Geralt's mind. 

~

Ciri's birthday is at the end of spring. Geralt is in Beauclair, discussing a commission for her with Grandmaster Lafargue when a notice catches his eye. 

_Wanted: The White Wolf_

_The witcher Geralt of Rivia, known as the White Wolf, is wanted to serve as a guide. His potential employer guarantees an ample wage for this unusual contract. For more information, he should go to Count Beledal's temporary base camp near Chuchote Cave._

_NOTE: We kindly request all other persons NOT present themselves at said camp under the pretense that they are Geralt of Rivia. Count Beledal was not born yesterday and can easily tell who is a witcher and who is faking it. All those journeying to his camp in shabby costumes with wooden swords strapped to their backs can save themselves the trouble and turn back._

The postscript gets a chuckle out of Geralt, and he thinks, _why not?_ It's been a slow week, and Ciri's gifts wouldn't be finished until tomorrow anyway. Might as well find some other use of his time. 

~

Apparently, all Count Beledal wanted was a guide who could track and calm some animals that he wanted to paint. It's easy work, and they finished in a couple of hours. 

"What's all this for, anyway?" Geralt asks, when they're making their way back to camp. "Hobbyists don't usually risk their safety just to paint some animals."

"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken! Art and the great outdoors are not _hobbies_ , they are passions, and for those I am willing to risk a great deal." Count Beledal pauses. "And besides, after hiring you, there was no risk at all!"

Maybe all painters were crazy. The one who'd painted Geralt's portrait was weirdly happy about the griffin that had attacked them too. Well, at least after it was dead. "Why is it your passion, then?" he presses. 

Count Beledal doesn't answer, dropping into a thoughtful silence that Geralt can't read. They continue to make their way through the brush in silence, and it gets more awkward by the minute. 

Did he cross some line? Should he apologize or —

"It's for my daughter, Clarissa," Count Beledal says abruptly. 

"Oh."

"She loves animals and the outdoors as well," he continues. "But she had a bad fall from her horse a couple years past, and she's been bedridden since. The mages and healers say she might never recover."

Geralt's stomach sinks. "Shit. I'm so sorry."

"The paintings — they're the closest thing she can get, now." The Count sighs. "I know witchers cannot have children, so you wouldn't understand. I would do anything for her, anything at all to make her happy."

"I do understand," Geralt says quietly. Count Beledal looks up, surprised. "I have a daughter too — from the Law of Surprise. I'd go to hell and back for her. Actually —" Geralt laughs wryly, "I already have. So I get it." 

Count Beledal studies him for a while, then breaks out into a small smile himself. "I hope your daughter is well, witcher."

"I hope she is too. She went to Nilfgaard to claim her inheritance from her natural father," he adds, at Count Beledal's questioning glance. "It's a long way from here, so she hasn't been able to visit."

The distance wasn't the problem, though. Ciri is just… busy, learning to become empress, and it's not practical to pop up a thousand miles away just for a visit when she has too many things to do. 

"Ah. You miss her," Count Beledal says, not unkindly. 

Geralt sighs. Right on the mark. "Yeah," he admits, voice thick with emotion. "I miss her a lot."

The camp comes into view as soon as they crest the hill. The guards are glad to have their lord back, and Count Beledal hands Geralt a heavy sack of gold for his services. He clears his throat before Geralt has a chance to make his hasty exit. 

"A few things before you go, Geralt," he says. "I will be hosting an exhibition for the paintings tomorrow at noon. Your presence would be much appreciated."

"Ah, sorry to disappoint, but I have some business in Beauclair tomorrow." Geralt has to pick up his present for Ciri, and he has a reward waiting for him with the ducal camerlengo for the group of thieves he and Guillaume had disbanded. 

Count Beledal frowns. "That's too bad. I will have a painting from this collection sent to your residence, then, as a memento." He extends a hand, which Geralt shakes. "Farewell, Geralt." Then he says something in Koviri that Geralt doesn't understand, claps Geralt on the back, and leaves.

~

An odd, melancholy mood settles over Geralt on his way to Beauclair. 

He thinks about that woman in Velen, clutching her grandchild close as her husband tries to put out the blaze that had been their home. He thinks about Marlene as a wight, achingly alone over her cauldron of brew, and Marlene now, rolling out dough for the tarts she gives to the workers' children in Corvo Bianco. Of Count Beledal travelling the world, throwing himself at dangerous beasts just to paint them for his little girl, waiting at home. 

He thinks about Guillaume and Vivienne, of curses broken by kindness and love. He thinks of Vesemir, turning over the ache in his heart to find bittersweet memories of listening to stories of heroic witchers at the old man's knee, back when Geralt was too young to join the trainees in their sword drills.

He thinks about Eskel and Lambert, how even Kaer Morhen had seemed warm and _alive_ with the three of them laughing uproariously together, mugs full of Lambert's crap vodka. He thinks of Corvo Bianco, of how empty it had felt when everyone had to go. 

He thinks about Ciri, most of all.

"— the way he set the runestones just so, and the resulting enchantment on the daggers! It's truly splendid, Master Geralt, look!"

Geralt shakes himself out of his (frankly depressing) thoughts, and refocuses on the pair of daggers laid out on Grandmaster Lafargue's counter. Like all of the master's work, the daggers are exquisite: meteoric steel and silver with blue and green runes flashing down the blades. He picks one up and gives it an experimental slash; there's a _whoosh_ of air and a small arc gouges itself into the wall opposite Geralt, following the blade's trajectory. 

Grandmaster Lafargue smiles with satisfaction. "This severance enchantment, applied to a dagger, gives approximately the same reach as a longsword. A genius idea. Thank you again for introducing me to the Runewright, sir; it has been exhilarating to work with someone of his talents."

"Glad you're getting along," Geralt grunts. The daggers have exceeded his expectations. Nilfgaardian manners forbid swords and similar weapons in polite company, but daggers and belt knives are acceptable (never mind that they are just as deadly). With these, Ciri can meet Nilfgaardian standards of propriety and still be prepared for any threat, whether from monsters or from men. Lafargue had even gilded the hilts and sheathes with delicate golden scrollwork, which makes them look like beautiful, ornamental weapons fit for an empress. 

Any assassin who dismisses these daggers as _merely ornamental_ will probably end up with the business side of the blade in their guts. 

He pays for the lot, daggers and scabbards and even a finely made leather belt to hold them. But when Geralt walks out of Grandmaster Lafargue's studio, he has to confront the issue he has been avoiding ever since he commissioned the gift for Ciri: how is he supposed to give it to her? The capital of Nilfgaard is a three month journey south, and Geralt isn't sure if Emhyr has retracted the bounty on his head. It's not the sort of gift he can entrust to a messenger either, and besides, there's no way a common messenger will be able to deliver a package to Ciri without an Imperial pass of some sort. 

Ah well. Maybe he can convince the Nilfgaardian embassy to send it for him. Geralt sighs morosely, and guides Roach to the road back to Corvo Bianco. 

~

There's a mild commotion at the courtyard when he arrives. 

Barnabas-Basil is at his side the instant Geralt dismounts from Roach. "Master Geralt," he frets, "someone has _very rudely_ barged into your home. I tried to tell them that you were away on business, and to come back tomorrow, but they insisted."

"Relax, B.B.," Geralt says wryly. "Who was it?"

"They didn't even do me the courtesy of giving me their name!" B.B. looks more incensed at the breach of etiquette than the breach of home security. "They even had the gall to laugh at me when I asked!" 

Unfortunately, Geralt has many friends — and enemies — who would be rude enough to do that, so that doesn't really narrow down the possibilities. "I'll handle it from here. Where are they now?"

"Waiting in the sitting room, sir."

He makes his way up to the house, but when he crosses the threshold, he's hit with the impossible smell of ozone. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but the alternative would be Avallac'h, and that bastard doesn't have any reason to visit —

"You have a lovely home." 

He freezes. 

Ciri is standing by the doorway to the sitting room, meeting his eyes uncertainly. She's awkward, Geralt realizes suddenly; her shoulders are slightly hunched and she's tugging at the hem of her shirt the way she used to, back when they just got to Kaer Morhen and she didn't think she belonged.

Geralt is at her side in a flash, folding her into a crushing embrace. "Your home, too," he says gruffly, "for as long as you want."

The tension releases from her body, and Ciri hugs him back just as tightly. "I missed you so much."

"You too, kid." Geralt gives her one last pat on the back, and then he ushers her onto the couch. There are plates of pastries and a tray of tea things on the table, and he gestures at them gracelessly. "Want any?"

The daintiness of the entire set-up — complete with a doily under the macarons — is so incongruent with Geralt's entire existence that he doesn't blame Ciri for bursting into laughter. "Laugh all you want; the pink ones are _delicious_ and I'm not leaving you any," he says loftily, settling in next to her.

"Not fair!" Ciri protests, and snatches one of them away before Geralt can grab all three. He just smirks at her surprise after the first bite — Marlene's macarons are the _best_ and the only thing wrong with them is that the cookies are laughably tiny. 

"My, they _are_ delicious," she says, after washing it down with some tea.

"Your old man is a Toussaintois knight now, you know," Geralt says as pompously as he can. "I've become a man of taste and refinement." He proves this by taking the tiniest nibble of the cookie possible, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the deafening growl of his stomach. 

Ciri promptly erupts into giggles yet again. 

"Truly though, your home is wonderful," she says, when she's recovered enough to talk. "But I never thought you were the type to settle down, especially not to a villa lined with velvet cushions." She flops back into the sofa with a contented sigh.

Geralt shrugs. "Didn't buy the cushions. Just came back from a contract and found the house completely furnished. If you hate them, blame Marlene."

"Marlene?" Ciri raises an eyebrow at him. 

"The cook. Well, I hired her to cook anyway, but then she kinda just did everything else too."

She grins cheekily at him. "Well, well, a cook _and_ a butler. We're really moving up in the world, aren't we?" 

"It's not an army or an empire," he teases, "but I'd say I'm doing quite well for myself." 

Geralt immediately regrets bringing it up, because he feels Ciri stiffen beside him. 

"Hey," he says, as gently as he can. "It's fine — you left but we're good. We don't have to talk about — oh _no —"_

Without warning, Ciri had burst into tears. 

"Hey, uh, don't cry," Geralt stammers helplessly. He tries to draw Ciri into a hug, but she's folded herself up into a ball, knees tucked to her chest and her face buried in her arms. He settles for rubbing soothing circles into her back instead, but he has no idea if it's helping, and he feels utterly stupid and useless as Ciri sobs beside him. 

It takes a long time for her tears to subside. 

"I — I thought you were mad at me," she hiccups, after the worst is over. "Because I went with Emhyr."

He'd been hurt and upset, back at White Orchard, but not because of that. The fact that Ciri kept him in the dark about it is what stung the most, especially after the stunt she had pulled with Avallac'h over the White Frost. Geralt tries to find the words to explain, but he's always been shit at talking about his feelings. 

He takes too long. Ciri swallows audibly and looks up at him, eyes full of guilt and shame. "You're still mad at me," she blurts, jumping to the wrong conclusion. "You're still mad at me and I assumed I could visit — _fuck_ I just barged in — no letters, I should have known —" 

"Ciri —" 

"— you've been avoiding me, and there's an embassy in Beauclair so if you had wanted to —" 

"Ciri!" 

Ciri shuts up, and stares at him with wide, miserable eyes. 

"Look — when I said you're welcome here, I meant it. You will have a home wherever _I_ have a home for as long as I live, alright? As for the other thing —" Geralt sighs, and drags a hand down his face. "I'm not gonna lie, it hurt when you told me you were leaving." 

Ciri looks away, biting her lip. 

"I'm sorry, Geralt —"

"Not because you were leaving," he interrupts. "But because you didn't tell me sooner. Hell, I didn't even stop you when you went after the White Frost, did you think I would stop you from going south?" 

"I — I just didn't —" 

Ciri takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries again. "I just didn't want to ruin what time we had left together," she says in a small voice. 

"The surprise hurt worse, I think," Geralt says, shrugging. "Might've spent the time a bit differently if I knew. But that's done — I'm over it now. You know I could never stay mad at you," he adds, taking her hand and giving it a light squeeze. 

At that, Ciri laughs weakly. "Even when I nicked your sword and dropped it at the Pendulum?" 

"Even then," he agrees. 

She's quiet for a while, playing with her hems again. Then she turns back to Geralt. 

"But you didn't write to me. I —" she swallowed. "I thought that now, since we're both mostly settled, we could have written —" 

Geralt rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "I, uh, didn't know how to send you a letter."

Ciri stops sniffling in favor of staring at him incredulously. "You have got to be joking. Don't you _know_ what a messenger is?" 

"Of course I do! I just figured that there was no way the Imperial Palace would let any old messenger in —"

"There's a Nilfgaardian Embassy at Beauclair!" 

"Yeah, but I didn't know how to convince the ambassador that I knew you personally!" he said defensively. "I tried to get into his good graces with a couple of rounds of gwent, maybe lose on purpose to get him in a good mood, but then apparently Ambassador von Hinn is some sort of gwent god because he _trounced_ me five times in a row, and I got — _stop laughing_! I lost my Cerys an Craite card to that bastard!"

"I'll give you an Imperial seal," Ciri promises, wiping away tears. From laughter, now, and the sight settles something in Geralt's chest. "You can send any letter with that seal via any Nilfgaardian Embassy; they'll bring it to the palace along with the rest of the priority mail."

Geralt smiles. "I was never great at correspondence, but if it's for you, I'll write every week. Every _day_ , even," he adds, suddenly struck with inspiration, "as much as I can write. Do you think that will annoy von Hinn into returning my card?"

"Or I could just order him to," Ciri says mischievously. "Since I _am_ going to be the next Empress." 

"Hmmm. Vesemir would probably say something about witcher neutrality, but I'm just happy that my daughter is willing to abuse her power to recover my prized possessions." 

Ciri laughs at that, clear and bright, and finally, the last piece of home clicks into place. 

~ 

They talk through the night. Marlene interrupts them for dinner, so they move their conversation to the dining room, trading stories over beef stew and fresh bread. 

It takes a while for Geralt to recognize the warm feeling suffused through his entire body. It's _joy._ Genuine joy, the kind that he had been afraid to even _want_ for the most of his adult life. It hits him like a ton of bricks, then, that he now has everything he has ever dreamed of: a home to call his own, and family and friends to fill it.

A lump forms in his throat, from all the emotions he has no idea how to deal with. 

"— I swear I didn't mean to be rude, but after a solid year of being recognized wherever I go, Barnabas-Basil's reaction was hilarious, and I — oh no, what's the matter?" 

Geralt clears his throat. "Nothing. Just glad you're here."

Ciri's face softens. "Me too. I'm sorry I didn't come to visit earlier." 

"Well, er, are you going back to Nilfgaard tonight?" he asks gruffly. 

"Thankfully, no. I've some business in Toussaint for the next month or so, and while the Duchess was supposed to host me, I'm sure she'll understand if I decide to stay with family instead. Only if it's alright," she adds hastily, "I shouldn't presume —" 

Shit. Ciri just called him _family._ He regrets that last cup of wine, it's making him far too emotional. 

"Of course it's alright. I'll take you up to your room myself."

 _That_ takes Ciri by surprise. "I have a room here already?" 

"Yep. Come on, let's go upstairs," Geralt says, rising from his seat. 

Ciri's room is large and well-appointed, with big windows facing the morning sun. It was one of the few rooms that Geralt had given his personal attention to: he made sure to have it arranged the way Ciri's room used to be arranged in Kaer Morhen, with the bed secure in the corner with line of sight to the windows and the doors. He even remembered to tell Barnabas-Basil to find linens in teal, Ciri's favorite color. 

"Well, here it — _oof!"_

The hug catches him off guard. 

"Thank you so much, Geralt," Ciri says, voice muffled into his shoulder.

He pats her on the back. "Don't thank me just yet. Have you seen –"

At that point, Ciri must see the portrait he hung on the wall, with a label proclaiming its title to be "The Queen of Cintra Denied Snacks", because she bursts into laughter and pushes Geralt away to look at the painting more closely.

"Where did you even _find_ it?!" 

"There's an art fair in Beauclair every so often, and you know, I'm something of a man of culture now," he replies, leaning against the door frame. "Saw this — a pretty damn good replica, obviously, Emhyr still has the original — and I knew it had to go in here." 

Ciri glares at him exasperatedly. 

"So… a month here, then?" Geralt asks hopefully. If Ciri is staying for a month that means she'll be here for her birthday… 

"If it's alright, yes," Ciri confirms. "My minders can stay somewhere else. After all, even Papa —Emhyr, that is —will have to admit that I'll be the safest I'll ever be with you." 

He snorts at that. "I'll hold you to that. Keep the end of the month free, yeah?" 

That puts a sly grin on Ciri's face. "Of course. What's the occasion?"

Geralt rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Go to bed, Ciri." 

"Good night, Geralt!" she calls after him, and Geralt goes back to his own bedroom unable to stop smiling. 

~ 

He's neck deep in a Koviri phrasebook, trying to figure out how to write Triss' address properly for her invitation to Ciri's birthday party, when he gets the idea to translate whatever it was that Count Beledal had told him before they parted. 

_May those you love be near you_

_And may you have all your heart desires_

A common Koviri farewell, according to the book, but he remembers Marlene's blessing. He remembers the song from the backwoods of Velen, and that is the last couplet, more or less directly translated. 

What are the odds of three separate people giving him the same blessing? What are the odds that the blessing would even come _true?_ They're just words, nothing magical at all about them, and yet in the year since he first received the blessing, Geralt has received a house, deepened friendships, and now —

It's disconcerting and overwhelming, so when Keira Metz arrives at Corvo Bianco for Ciri's birthday party, Lambert in tow, he pulls her aside to ask her about it. 

"You couldn't have asked Yennefer or Triss?" she drawls, when he finishes his lengthy explanation. 

Geralt shrugs. "Triss will make it too complicated and Yen won't bother explaining at all."

Keira's lips quirk up at that. "Well, when you put it that way," she says wryly, before drifting off into thought. 

"You do know that, in the most fundamental of terms, a curse is ill will made manifest, yes? Harsh words spoken with enough hatred to make them true?" she asks, just as Geralt was beginning to lose patience. 

Of course he knows that — he's a witcher. He nods at Keira. 

"It's rare to find its inverse, because manners, politeness and what not means traditional blessings are no longer spoken with power." She pauses. "In your case, though, I believe the blessings were spoken with enough love and sincerity that the goodwill became manifest."

Geralt stares at her in disbelief. 

"You mean to say —" 

"— that someone _cared_ about you enough to magically manifest their will in the form of a blessing? Awfully trite, but yes," Keira says, sniffing. 

"I —" 

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Geralt." She rolls her eyes, trying and failing to look nonchalant. "Some of us _do_ want good things for you, you know."

That effectively drives Geralt into speechlessness. 

"Quite." Keira smooths out her skirts, not meeting Geralt's eyes. "If that's all?" 

He just nods dumbly at her, and she shoves past him to go bitch at Lambert or whatever it is she wants to do to get the _love and sincerity_ out of her system. 

Keira's assessment puts that entire afternoon in a new light. The villa is packed with guests — friends and family are crammed into the dining room, digging into the wonderful spread Marlene had prepared. Regis, Eskel, and Zoltan are getting steadily trashed on mandrake moonshine in the corner. Yennefer and Cerys are deep in conversation over cake in the sitting room, while Hjalmaar and Dandelion are trying their best to bang out a ballad about the ice giant hunt beside the women. Keira had abandoned Lambert in favor of cozying up to Emhyr, who was only enduring this "rowdy, unrefined fête" because Ciri had asked him to. 

"Crown for your thoughts?" 

Ciri bumps him with her shoulder companionably. 

Geralt takes a deep breath. "It's nothing. I'm just…" 

She raises an eyebrow at him. 

"... happy," he finishes, smiling.   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't finished Blood and Wine, "The Queen of Cintra Denied Snacks" is a reference to [ this portrait of a grumpy eight year old Ciri.](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/witcher/images/8/81/Young_Ciri_painting.png/revision/latest?cb=20170310154824) It's adorable and I buy it every single play through.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who helped beta-read this work!


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